


at the end and beginning of it all

by polkadot



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No WAGs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-01 17:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11491500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: After a disappointing Wimbledon, Andy finds comfort in Mallorca.





	at the end and beginning of it all

**Author's Note:**

> For mostlyvoide - I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> Set immediately after Wimbledon 2017. Rafa lost in the fourth round to Gilles Muller in a five-set thriller, and Andy and Novak crashed out in the quarterfinals to Sam Querrey and Tomas Berdych, respectively. (Federer defeated Cilic in the final, 6-3 6-1 6-4.)

So Wimbledon goes a bit shit. 

Andy makes it to the quarterfinals, which to be fair is longer than he expected, given the fact that he’s playing with approximately half a hip, held together with a hope, a wish, and an assortment of very grumpy sinews. Then he loses to Sam Querrey, who’s one of those Americans that even Americans don’t remember. A tall drink of tap water, that’s what Querrey is – bland and stale and forgettable, no sparkle at all.

Granted, Andy’s just lost to the guy, so he may be being a little sour. 

“Welcome to the ‘the fuck did I just lose to Sam fucking Querrey’ club,” Novak says in the locker room, making a face. 

(Novak is also sour, and for similar reasons. If you’re a multi-time Wimbledon champion like Andy and Novak, carrying an injury and going out in the quarterfinals to an opponent you could usually beat with a hand tied behind your back is not a pleasant experience. Novak’s elbow, Andy’s hip… it never rains but it pours. Particularly in the UK.)

“I blame you,” Andy says, straight-faced. “Beating you last year obviously made Querrey think he’s allowed to do that sort of thing. All your fault.”

Novak tosses his bag down on the bench with perhaps more force than was technically required. “That’s me. Giving the whole tour hope against the big guys. You’re welcome.”

“Technically Stan’s usually the one giving the whole tour hope against the big guys,” Andy says, because Stan shows up for the Slams (except Wimbledon) and that’s about it. It works for him, Andy’s not knocking Stan’s three Slams, but if you’re casting a “shock loss to unheralded player” upset, you pick Stan every time. Sometimes _Andy_ doesn’t even recognise the players Stan loses to, and he kind of does this tennis thing for a living.

His ruthless throwing Stan under the bus does make Novak’s face relax a little. “Yeah, okay. But this year has been shit.”

“Cry me a river,” Andy says, unsympathetic. “So you’ve only won a couple titles instead of your usual shitload. You did just win _four Slams in a row_ , you deserve a bit of a break.”

“But I wanted to win _eight_ Slams in a row,” Novak says, mock-mournfully, though Andy can hear the bite of truth somewhere behind it. 

Andy rolls his eyes. “Rest your elbow. You can get back to Super-Novak for the North American swing. We’re thirty now, we have to take care of ourselves if we want to last as long as Federer.”

“Fucking retire already,” Novak says with a scowl, but he’s not serious. Their lives might be easier and more lucrative if Fed walked away to raise his eleventy-million children and sell chocolate and watches to all of mankind – not least, Novak wouldn’t be repeatedly shuffled off Centre Court to Court 1 because the entirety of posh England has simultaneous orgasms when Fed hits a backhand – but they’ve long since made their peace with the fact that Fed’s obviously made a deal with the devil and will play until he’s ninety-seven.

Andy shakes his head. “Nah, you know that now he has nineteen in the bag, he’s never going to retire until he hits twenty. We’re stuck with him for good.”

Ostensibly there are still four guys left in the draw. Ostensibly Querrey, Cilic, or Berdych could walk away with the trophy. Realistically, the BBC’s already making highlight reels and fawning over-the-top tributes to celebrate Federer’s eighth Wimbledon. Life comes at you fast.

Novak groans and thunks his head against his locker.

“Go have a baby and take some time off,” Andy says, clapping a consoling hand on his shoulder. “We both deserve a holiday. The tour will be still be here when we come back.”

Novak’s doing that soft dad-grin he gets whenever anyone brings up Stefan or Jelena’s pregnancy. “I suppose it will be.” He shakes himself. “Watch out, this time I really will win eight Slams in a row.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Andy says, and departs to feed the ravening British press.

~

Andy’s already feeling the itch of a sunburn start under his skin, and he’s only been in Mallorca a hot minute.

He closes his eyes, leaning his head against the cool white wall and letting the strap of his bag slide down his arm. Soon the bag follows, soft thump on the floor next to his suitcase, a little pile of travel detritus in Rafa’s entryway.

Andy needs to move, needs to unpack and locate sunscreen and eat something, because he can never eat on planes. Certainly not when his hip aches, tired and persistent, and his fingers still itch to be wrapped around a racquet, his feet to be planted on tattered Wimbledon grass.

He breathes in, out, letting go. This is him, letting go. There will be other Slams. 

Rafa’s somewhere about. Rafa has two days on him, two days since that titanic match against Muller, clawed back from two sets down but unable to get over the finish line. Andy’s heart had been in his throat; even though he’d known he should technically be rooting for Muller – Rafa out of the draw is always good news for Andy’s chances – that ship has long since sailed.

“I’m home,” he says to the air, letting the syllables roll around his mouth, feeling his shoulders relax.

He leaves his stuff in the entryway. He’ll get it later. And forget searching for sunscreen. What he needs now – needs with a sudden ache stronger than the one in his hip – is Rafa’s face, Rafa’s smile. 

He finds Rafa in a hammock outside, asleep and dead to the world. Andy watches him for a minute, watches the smooth slack peacefulness of his face. 

If he were a different man, Andy would be overcome with fierce joy for the fact that this Rafa, here alone in this private moment, is _his_ Rafa; that if he wakes Rafa, the smile he will get will be _his_ smile. They’ve journeyed a long way to get to this point, childhood friends turned adult rivals turned occasional lovers turned something more. Andy could easily lose himself in memories – the first kiss, the first fuck, the first time he brought Rafa off while Rafa held the Coupe des Mousquetaires, fingers clutched tight around the rim and filthy Mallorquí falling off his tongue like water.

But Andy is not a different man, and in this moment what he thinks of is not the past, but the future. A future that includes dinner, and a quiet night in with absolutely no talk of tennis, and the dessert he doesn’t allow himself during tournaments. And before all that, Rafa - his mouth, hot and sure; his arms, strong and brown; his eyes, mischievous and intent; the curve of his bicep and the jut of his chin, the way he gasps when Andy kisses under his ear and the unconscious arch of his hips when Andy presses against him, the endearments he thinks Andy doesn’t understand and the profanity he knows Andy does.

Andy swallows, and walks to the hammock with purpose.

Rafa wakes to his kiss, making an interrogatory noise in his throat that turns into a grumbly purr. His hand comes up to the back of Andy’s head, holding him in place, and when the kiss turns dirty, Andy’s more than prepared.

“Hello,” Rafa says, when they break apart for air. “If you make me have a hammock accident and I hurt something, Toni will kill you.”

“I’m not scared of Toni,” Andy says, though he is a little. “ _You_ wouldn’t kill me?”

The subject of Rafa and injuries is a delicate one. Andy finds it strange to be the injured one in the relationship for once. So many of their years together have been haunted by the spectre of Rafa’s health. Andy’s frankly a little surprised that Rafa hasn’t retired half a dozen times already, not that he’d ever tell Rafa that. 

“No, I would make you pay in other ways,” Rafa says, shamelessly copping a feel of Andy’s arse, his fingers digging in in all the right ways.

Andy licks his lips, watching the way Rafa’s eyes follow. “Come inside.”

Rafa stretches. His shirt rides up, bronze strip of skin appearing between hem and waistline.

Andy must have kissed that spot a million times, but suddenly waiting a minute longer seems too long. He drops to his knees beside the hammock, leans in and presses his mouth to Rafa’s belly, biting a nipped promise into the skin. 

“Or we could stay out here,” Rafa says, his voice slightly uneven, his fingers tracing Andy’s jawline. 

Their house is private. Mallorca is the one place on Earth that Andy can be just Andy – not a tennis player, not a superstar, not anything except himself, free and clear. He pulls Rafa’s shorts down in one smooth movement, Rafa obligingly helping with a hip wiggle, and buries his face against the inside of Rafa’s thigh.

“Really going to have a hammock accident now,” Rafa says. His voice has gone a little high, and Andy grins. How many blowjobs have they exchanged? And yet even now Rafa’s already hot for him, just from the sight of Andy kneeling. They’ve still got it. 

He looks up and meets Rafa’s eyes, listening to the way Rafa sucks his breath in through his nose, his dick jumping. “Well then,” he says, letting his lips whisper against Rafa’s skin, “you’ll just have to be very still.”

Rafa says something extremely rude, but his hand on the back of Andy’s neck is betraying him, pulling Andy forward, trying to guide his mouth where he wants it. 

“Hold still,” Andy says, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Rafa’s dick.

They manage not to suffer death by hammock, but only because after Rafa comes the first time – shuddering under Andy’s touch, the adrenalin running lightning-quick through Andy’s veins, because this is his, all this is his – they tumble inside, all roving hands and hot kisses. Rafa has leftovers from last night, chicken and pasta, and he puts them in front of Andy like an ultimatum. “Eat.”

Andy’s hungry, he hasn’t eaten since before his flight, but he hardly tastes the food. Rafa’s padding about the kitchen naked, his clothes discarded outside, and how can Andy concentrate on anything when that’s the view? 

He wonders how players like Novak and Federer do it. If this was his everyday life – if Rafa naked in his kitchen was his normal Thursday, and not just their few precious holidays away from the tennis grind – how would he ever be able to concentrate on his work? If you’d already made enough money to support you the rest of your life, and you’d been lucky enough to find someone you loved to share it with, how did you keep your competitive fire burning? If this was his everyday reality, Andy thinks he’d never be able to tear himself away.

But Rafa’s competitive fire is still burning, hotter than ever since his tenth Roland Garros. Andy knows Rafa’s not ready for retirement – he still has hills to climb and battles to fight. And as long as Rafa’s still in the game, Andy will be. 

Those daydreams that he has sometimes – the ones where Rafa balances a baby on his hip, the ones where they play doubles with their kids (switching hands to make it fairer), the ones with sleepy morning lie-ins and all-day fishing expeditions and proper deep tans (even for pasty Scots!), the ones where he brings Rafa to Christmas, or they play Legends doubles together (and everyone complains it’s not fair), or they go sightseeing in out-of-the-way places and use bad disguises and pretend that nobody recognises them and kiss on mountaintops, or or or – those daydreams will just have to wait.

Rafa washes the dishes, because he can never bear to have unwashed dishes sitting on the counter. Andy dries.

Their bed is cool, crisp sheets and soft pillows caressing Andy’s skin as Rafa pushes him onto it, climbing on top of him with single-minded purpose. 

It’s been a while since they’ve been able to have a real fuck, careful not to risk injury during the clay or grass swings, and Andy bites his lip as Rafa starts putting his clever fingers to good use. He’s got his hip propped on a pillow – he’s geriatric already, a month after his thirtieth birthday – and for once nothing hurts and everything sings.

Rafa breaks from their kiss to grin at him, teeth sharp and eyes sparkling. “Missed me?”

“You have no idea,” Andy says, and pulls him closer, laughing when it does something to the angle of Rafa’s hand and Rafa yelps, giving him a dirty look. 

“First dangerous hammock sex, now you try to break my wrist. I see the plan. You and Novak try to make everyone else injured too. Then everybody equal.”

“Come here,” Andy says, and Rafa slips his fingers free, leaning over him all golden and sweaty. He’s everything Andy wants, every trophy Andy’s ever longed for, and Andy kisses him, putting all his unspoken feelings into it. 

Rafa hums into the kiss. Andy can feel the smile on his face.

Later, when Rafa pushes into him, overwhelming and perfect, he curls his hands around Rafa’s arms and hangs on. Twenty-four hours ago he was tumbling out of Wimbledon, disappointment weighing down his shoulders and his hip flaring with pain; now he can think of nothing but the sunbeam behind Rafa’s head, the intensely concentrated look on Rafa’s face, the rhythm of Rafa’s thrusts, Rafa Rafa Rafa.

“Mine,” Rafa says in English, leaning their foreheads together, “mine,” in Mallorquí, and Andy closes his eyes and presses shaky kisses to Rafa’s jawline, wordless assent in every fibre of his body.

~

So Wimbledon was a bit shit. It happens.

Andy can’t be arsed to care as much anymore, not when he wakes in the morning sun to Rafa pressed up against him. Rafa’s stolen all the covers, and he’s snoring louder than a Lahyani overrule, but his leg is hooked over Andy’s, and Andy’s chest feels tight.

No doubt the headlines in the newspapers are bad (although bless Jo Konta for being British and still in the tournament – she’s taken a bit of the heat off him with Konta-mania). Yet Andy abruptly doesn’t give a flying fuck what the press says. He’s won three Slams, two Wimbledons. He’s had a good career, and it’s not over yet. There’s time to make more memories.

And when that time is up - when Andy leaves Wimbledon for the last time, packing up his racquets and giving his last interviews, suffering through over-dramatic retrospectives and the journalistic gushing that always makes him uncomfortable – when Andy shuts up his London flat and forwards his mail, packs a few suitcases and takes the first flight to Mallorca – when everything is over, and there are no more battles to be fought but only the rest of his life to be lived – there will be Rafa, at the end and beginning of it all.

Rafa stirs next to him, and Andy smiles.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says in Mallorquí, as Rafa turns his face over into the pillow with a muffled grumble. 

Today is a new day, and Andy’s ready to make it his own.

~


End file.
